


A Very Fulfilling Desert Life

by sourcheeks



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourcheeks/pseuds/sourcheeks
Summary: An old friend turns up after a fire.





	1. Chapter 1

Carlos had not been a part of the Volunteer Fire Department since the schism, and he was very, very happy about that. Well, he was moderately happy about that. Or, he wasn’t so much happy as he didn’t have to think about it, even if it sent a jolt of panic through him every time he saw the violet eye of the Sheriff’s Secret Police. If anyone ever asked, all Carlos had to do was give a brisk definition of scopophobia, a word which here means “lying about one’s real phobias in the pursuit of escaping your past,” but which most places only means “the fear of eyes.” He typically provided the second description. 

There was little he could do, however, to explain the sobbing man in his living room. The community radio broadcast had ended shortly before Lemony arrived on his doorstep with a suit that smelled like damp seaweed and a tattered typewriter case that may or may not have contained a typewriter, which gave Carlos maybe 20 minutes to come up with a good explanation for his boyfriend about his strange-even-for-Night-Vale-past. 

Lemony was sobbing, which was nothing new. Lemony cried very frequently. It wasn’t that Lemony was overly sensitive, just that dreadful things kept happening to him. However, Lemony sobbing meant it was going to be very difficult to extract any information from him. Carlos provided his friend with a handkerchief to cry into and began looking for the tea.

“ _ Beatrice _ ,” Lemony choked out. Carlos banged his forehead against the spider cabinet. The spiders scuttled angrily against the door at him, and he mumbled an apology. 

“What about Beatrice?”

“She’s dead.”

Oh. Something hard and unpleasant settled in Carlos’s stomach. 

“A fire. Her and Bertrand…” Lemony started sobbing again. 

“Oh, my god.” Carlos wrapped his arms around himself, swallowing thickly. Tears blurred his vision and he reminded himself death was inevitable. “What about the children?”

“The children are safe.” Lemony hid his face with the crumpled handkerchief, shoulders trembling. “They’re with Monty.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Carlos wiped his eyes hastily and rubbed Lemony’s trembling shoulders. “It’s alright, Lemony, really. She lived longer than anyone thought that she would.” Wrong thing to say. Carlos was a man of science, and he was not very good at comforting people, never had been. 

But it seemed to calm Lemony a bit, and he scrubbed his wet eyes dry with the handkerchief, taking deep breaths. “The fire… it was in the middle of the day. They’d just sent the children out.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Carlos frowned. “How could they have stayed trapped, if they were awake?” But Carlos knew. He didn’t want to know, wished greatly it was within his power not to know, but he knew. 

“They knew.”

“Had to have.” Carlos sat on the couch, slumping down. “But, then it wasn’t an accident.”

“Had to be the firestarters. The Baudelaire parents went willingly to their deaths.”

If it was the firestarters, and the Baudelaires had known, there was a very good chance they were not dead at all. There was a very good chance they had started the fire themselves in  _ anticipation _ of the firestarters. Carlos didn’t say so. If Bea was really dead, it would be cruel to get Lemony’s hopes up. 

The door opened. Carlos was not ready. In fact, he felt rather bilious, a word which here means “thinking of every synonym for queasy he knew to avoid thinking of his situation.” 

“Carlos, darling, I’m home!” Cecil called. Carlos stood, hoping maybe Cecil would not notice Lemony’s trembling form and he would have a few more minutes to come up with a good explanation. Of course, Cecil noticed immediately. “Who’s your friend?”

“Uh…” Carlos looked between Lemony and Cecil. “Babe, this is Lemony Snicket. He’s an old friend, we… used to work together. He’s a writer.”

“Oh a writer!” Cecil extending a hand for Lemony to shake. “Books can be quite frightening, can’t they?”

“All too often,” Lemony agreed gravely, shaking Cecil’s hand. 

Cecil turned to hug Carlos, kissing him on the cheek. “Oh, Carlos, I meant to text you! We have a new intern, and he has that same tattoo on his ankle as you! Isn’t that interesting?”

“Probably just a coincidence,” Lemony explained hastily. 

“I hardly think so!” Cecil chuckled. “Coincidences are forbidden by the sheriff’s secret police.”

“That’s… true,” Carlos admitted, sighing. “Cecil, darling, there’s something I have to tell you. You might wanna sit - it’s a long story.”

Cecil sat obediently. “Of course, darling Carlos.”

Carlos forced a tight smile, sitting down beside Cecil and taking his hand. “I haven’t always been a scientist.”

“Of course not. No one has always been anything. You have not always been a scientist, and I have not always been a radio host, and Lemony has not always been a writer.”

“He has a point,” Lemony agreed. “Everyone shifts and changes as they grow.” Carlos glared at Lemony over his boyfriend’s head. 

“That’s… not exactly what I was trying to say. That tattoo on my ankle isn’t just a tattoo. It’s a symbol. Lemony has one too.”

“From when you used to work together,” Cecil surmised. 

“From when we were spies together,” Lemony corrected. 

Carlos groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not…  _ exactly _ how I was going to phrase it, but yes.” He clasped Cecil’s shoulder. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you.”

And there was a lot. The whole story would have taken days, possibly a whole month. Carlos had barely even scratched the surface at the break of dawn when he had to go to work and made Lemony and Cecil go to bed. He hadn’t forgotten about the new intern at the radio station, of course he hadn’t. 

But he hadn’t been expecting one at the lab, with the same ankle tattoo. 


	2. Chapter 2

Cecil woke up with Lemony curled into a tight ball on the bed beside him, shaking. A nightmare - Cecil was familiar. He ruffled Lemony’s hair as he left to shower. 

Lemony was awake when Cecil got back. He looked frightened and very tired. It was a look that Cecil recognized very, very well. He hated disturbing Lemony in this state, but he needed answers. Cecil sat in front of Lemony on the mattress, folding his hands in his lap. 

“I understand there was a fire.”

“You do not understand anything,” Lemony replied glumy. 

“By order of the City Council, that is officially true. The fact that it is not is highly classified information. That’s something I know.” Cecil put a finger to his lips, the international sign for “hush.” 

Lemony looked at him with something like admiration, or perhaps even trust. This was quite odd, as man who showed up in homes of old associates bearing strange tattoos that matched the strange tattoos of said associates, talking about fires and codes and dead women, were typically not the kind of people who trusted someone because someone they cared for was affectionate towards the person. This was a wise philosophy. 

Lemony reached into the typewriter case that may or may not have contained a typewriter, retrieving a piece of paper with a note in neat cursive. “You should read this.”

 

_ Dearest Setnick, _

_ Thank you very much for the bell. It has a lovely ring. I am afraid I am incapable of joining you Hanukkah night. Kathy has insisted that I accompany her to a small vale in the desert, which, according to her, at the least, is lovely. But you know how Kathy is! She does love trouble! I’m sorry to miss our meeting, but I think you’ll find my reason well. Or, at the least, I hope so. Carlos sends his regards, and we hope to see you very soon.  _

_ Beatrice.  _

 

“Beatrice sent this the night before the fire,” Lemony explained. A death letter, Cecil knew, was a very serious thing. He scanned it over once more for discrepancies. 

“There’s no such thing as Hanukkah night. There are eight nights in Hanukkah,” he mused, biting his lip. “And Carlos is here, not with her… and your name isn’t Setnick.”

“Setnick is an old nickname,” Lemony explained. “That Beatrice only used to get my attention. And the only Kathy we know is my sister, whose name is Katherine, but she only ever goes by Kit. Beatrice and I had made no plans for Hanukkah, as it is months away. And I never sent her a bell.” Lemony moved over so he could read over Cecil’s shoulder. “It’s a Sebald code.”

“Sebald code?”

“Made up by a former member of our organization. Every eleventh word following the ringing of a bell.” Lemony tapped on the words important to the code, and the ink, Cecil noticed, was heavier there, like Beatrice had been too earnest in the writing. “‘Night Vale is trouble. Find Carlos soon.’”

“Night Vale is trouble,” Cecil repeated. “Not Night Vale is  _ in _ trouble. She’s warning you about the town, which… is actually probably wise.”

“So I found Night Vale - not easy, by the way, despite the earnestness of your tourism board - and then I found Carlos, and now here we are, totally bereft of clues.” Lemony sighed. “All we know is that Beatrice was aware of the fire - she sent me this letter and no doubt sent other coded messages to some of our other associates, and she got her children out of the house.”

Cecil chewed his lip, drumming his fingers against his leg. Now was as good a time as any to demand an explanation. The more he knew about this ‘VFD’ the more he could help. But before he could as, he was interrupted by the crunch of tires in the gravel driveway. 


End file.
